


The Curious Case of Félix Bracquemond

by NobleinPettiness (APeculiarPersuasion)



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Comedy, Comedy of Errors, F/M, Might do something with this series in future idk, Mystery, Post Canon but Eponine is alive because reasons, Post canon, Ridiculously bad cockney accent whoops, and another entry from the "I found this on my hard drive" collection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:14:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24208783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/APeculiarPersuasion/pseuds/NobleinPettiness
Summary: After the most recent revolution attempt in Paris, the Thénardier's have officially given up on France. As patriotic as they are, they've seen more revolutions than they have birthdays, and there's a point it becomes ridiculous. After a move to Brussels, they've found themselves down several political upheavals and up several more debts. In an attempt to find a way to make ends meet, they find that one can only be a criminal for so long before one becomes an excellent detective. Meanwhile, Éponine has also moved with her parents, if only to find a new chance away from her heartache. In trying to find independence from her parents, she finally finds a way to be on her own.
Relationships: M. Thénardier & éponine Thénardier, M. Thénardier/Mme. Thénardier (Les Misérables), Mme. Thénardier & Éponine Thénardier
Comments: 1
Kudos: 2





	1. In Which We Are Introduced to Our Heroes

Six months after the fall of the barricade, the Thénardiers were indeed still there. More specifically, in Belgium. Paris was not a good place to be at the moment, even for a pair of sewer rats such as Pierre and Beatrice. The family, such as it was, had escaped the entirety of France for good measure in August, just as soon as they had begged and stolen enough to flee and re-establish in Brussels. They’d gotten by on worse, and they aspired for much, much better. 

They were French after all.

One gloomy, Northern European morning, the Madame and Monsieur of the house sat at the small, unsteady oak table of the shabby apartment, engaging in their favorite shared hobby; spouse-baiting.

“Ah, fuck you an’ your ‘aughty airs,” grumbled Pierre.

“’M serious, bâtard, we’ve gotta do some’fin or we’ll be out on the streets. An’ I’m not stayin’ wif ya through that ‘ell again!”

“Ev’ryone hirin’ speaks German, maudit boches. So unless you’re up for walkin’ the streets…” 

The Frenchman trailed off, giving a mocking, toothy grin which warranted a smack on the arm from his wife.

Éponine, tired of hearing her genetic material carry on so, attempted to counsel her financially troubled parents.

“What if we started the inn again? We might be able to get a loan. Our names’re clean anyway…”

Pierre waved her off while simultaneously rubbing his skinny arm which was bound to bruise. Jesus, the greluche packed a punch. Dejected and disappointed, the young woman excused herself from the apartment by scampering out the window onto the ledge, and then the street. No point trying to make them see reason when they were such a sour mood.

Rolling her eyes, Madame Thénardier picked up her eggplant shaded, shabbily beaded purse which didn’t carry nearly enough weight, and slammed the door behind her, as she contemplated finding solace in the streets.

“Quelle une lavette! German my ass,” She muttered to herself, rolling her hazel eyes at the very notion, “Damn me to ‘ell for marryin’ the cocu.”

Shoved against a brick wall in the chaos of the crowd, the tiny waif of a woman yelled after the offender, “Femme à bouche! Watch it!” 

The young perpetrator turned to face her, and smiled widely once she discovered the source of the disturbance, surprising the Thénardiesse. It was, in fact, Anne-Marie, a call-girl with whom Beatrice had bonded. Though Anne was bounds more optimistic, a trait for the young and foolish, the two shared a similar outlook on money and men. It was a match made in Hell.

“Beatrice! Long time, M’dame!” The young prostitute beamed, catching up to her friend.

“Sorry love, didn’t recognize ya,” murmured Madame Thénardier in apology.

“It’s alright M’dame, I’m off t’day.” She said with a light laugh, gesturing to her marginally more conservative, though ripped and ruined, Sunday dress.

“Really? Up for a round then?” Beatrice’s head was aching, which meant she desperately needed a drink. Preferably, a free one.

“Course. There’s a tavern ‘round ‘ere somewhere…”

The two began their search; Beatrice couldn’t stand the native selection of beers, so they had to look for a cheap pinard. Traversing the twisting alleyways of the medieval city, Beatrice followed Anne-Marie’s lead. Though directionally sound, Madame Thénardier was still green enough to the city that she preferred to have a native leading her. She would have to learn soon enough though; at this rate, they’d be back to staging elaborate and unsuccessful pickpocketing schemes. After ten minutes of marching at a steady pace, the women came across a sleepy looking bar; La Larmichette. 

“Thank the Lord, thought I’d ‘ave ta spend the night on brandy,” grumbled the elder of the two.

“Brighten up, M’dame, we found somethin’. C’mon, let’s get warm,” advised Anne, who held the door in respect for her senior. Beatrice, in response, picked a table in the corner of dim, dingy hole. 

Anne-Marie went to fetch a bottle and two glasses while Beatrice settled down into the chair, leaning her elbow on the shaky table, and her head on her hand respectively. And, somehow, it was only six; it was going to be a long night. The hall was not unlike the inn that the Thénardiers had left behind outside of Paris; no more than four candles lit at once, nearly empty, rotting wood that lined the walls, accompanied by only slightly tacky posters of operas past, and a slab of pine which functioned as a bar, and looked as though it would give you cholera by looking at it. Just like home.

The call girl returned with a bottle of red wine and two musty, but viable glasses, handed one to her friend, and sat down across from the once-blonde woman.

“Rough day, then?” She asked, taking the role of the bartender, who seemed to have disappeared from the face of the earth, by pouring them each a tall glass of the blood-red liquid.

“Rough day, rough week, rough decade…” replied Beatrice, rolling her eyes as she drank down half the wine in one go, “Take your pick.”

“Your patron still ain’t got a job?”

“My patron never ‘ad one ta begin wif,” came the retort with a snort and a bit of laughter as the rest of the glass was drained, and subsequently refilled.

“Well, ‘e’s gotta be good for something, right?” Anne said with a smirk, elbowing her friend and eliciting a louder laugh.

“You’ve gotta be jokin’ me. Haven’t ‘ad a good night in years,” the elder said, somehow recovering quickly enough to get through her second glass.

The gloom outside became less gray and more black as the two carried on, making their way through the first bottle and half of a second before Anne-Marie requested that they return to their respective homes. Thénardier, the less drunk of the two, insisted that she help carry her young friend to her bed. A good thing too, since the prostitute passed out half-way en route. With a heavy sigh and a grunt, Beatrice shouldered the young woman and managed to half-carry, half-drag her up the four flights of stairs to the apartment which was somehow even smaller and dingier than the one she possessed. 

Anne’s room was a mess of mussed up bedsheets, jewelry boxes, flowers, perfumes, rouges, and powders. It was impressive that she was able to bring clients up at all; even if their enthusiasm wasn’t killed by the stairs, it would be by the nest that rivaled a rat’s. 

Kicking boxes and clothes aside as she walked, a red, twinkling collar caught the Thénardier’s eye, like a magpie reacting to a new bauble for her nest. It wasn’t real, of course. Nothing in the apartment was, from the cloth flowers in the window to the faux French chalk which dusted the walls and ceiling, as well as her friend’s face. She wouldn’t miss one of the necklaces, surely; she had to have three of the same. 

After the unscrupulous woman put the now-snoring drunkard to bed with the clumsy tenderness which had once tucked the sheets around her little girl so many years ago, she clamored out of the mess and picked up the gold chained, ruby-studded necklace with a deftness not expected from a woman who had drunk the better part of a bottle of wine. 

Beatrice tripped out of the building and mustered the strength of character which had served her so well thus far to walk to the apartment she was forced to call home. Her husband was already asleep on the mattress they shared, while Éponine hadn’t returned. Her mother didn’t seem too concerned, or capable of remembering that she had a daughter at all, so she fell onto the makeshift bed. Pierre grumbled as his wife pushed him over, snoring aggressively as they fought over the thin quilt. Several minutes later, the two were out cold, with the necklace still firmly gripped in the Madame’s small, work-worn hand.


	2. In Which Beatrice Receives a Rude Awakening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Beatrice steals something she shouldn't have, she and Pierre contrive to weasel their way out of trouble while still turning a profit.

The next morning, a very hungover Madame Thénardier awoke to a furious knocking on the door. Blinking sleepily, she pawed at her husband and muttered for him to get the door; probably their bastard of a landlord. Those types could be so inconsiderate.

Pierre groaned and shook his head as he pushed himself from the lumpy, straw bed, and took the blanket away as petty revenge on his wife for making him wake up. Swearing lightly, Beatrice pushed herself to a sitting position. She glanced down at the necklace in her hand and dropped it down her corset for safe keeping; apparently Pierre hadn’t caught a glance of it yet, and it’d be nice to bribe him with the money she’d make from pawning it. It was quite a convincing fake; maybe she could sell it as if it was real.

The man of the house opened the door, squinting at the figure before letting out a low whistle. “Eh, _Bonjour mam’selle_ … Wot’s a pretty thing like you doin’ ‘round here, _cherie_?”

Beatrice squinted at the curvaceous figure in the door, rubbing her eyes a bit as they adjusted to the weak, mid-morning light which managed to pass first through the clouds, then through the dingy window. The vision revealed herself to be Anne-Marie, looking quite distraught. She wore her uniform, such as it was; a slightly discolored black dress that draped around her shoulders and was hiked up to the knees, which could be released to the floor by means of a series of ribbons, in case of policemen looking for unlicensed ladies of the night. She had tearstains around her bloodshot eyes, and was all atremble – an impressive feat, considering that she had tight-laced her corset.

“Oh, Monsieur Thénardier, it’s terrible!” The poor woman wailed, brushing past him as she imposed herself on the kitchen table. “I’m sorry ta disturb you so early, but I didn’ know who else ta talk to, an’ Beatrice’n I wos out last night an’ I though’ maybe she migh’ rememba somethin’ an’…. Oh Monsieur!” She groaned, leaning her head and arms on the table, causing a bowl to topple to the floor and shatter.

“Clumsy _poutain_!” Muttered Pierre as he watched their last scrap of china get busted into one thousand pieces. “Éponine! Where’ve ya run off to?” He stuck his crane-like neck out the window, looking for his child.

Carefully stepping around the glistening, white shards, _la Thénardiesse_ sat beside the shamble of a woman. “Now, now love, wot’s’a matter?” She murmured, watching her through eyes that expressed concern, but hid severe annoyance. “’S nofin’ that can’t be fixed, I‘m sure.”

“But it can’t! God in ‘eaven, I dunno what I’m gonna do!” Anne whimpered, looking up at her friend pitifully. “I lost my necklace!”  
Though her throat tightened a bit, Beatrice waved a dismissive hand, “Is tha’ wot you’re worried about? Silly thing, ya’ve got at least ten more! Go wear the blue one, it looks good wif tha’ dress…”

“No, you don’t understand!” She wailed, burying her face in her arms again, “A customer gave that to me!”

A derisive snort came from the window, followed by a sarcastic quip, “Tha’s not the only thin’ ‘e gave ‘er…”

“Shut up, Pierre,” replied the slightly more tactful wife. “ _Chérie_ , I doubt ‘e’d care wot you’re wearin’ when you’re workin’.”

“No! Listen to me!” Anne cried, looking betwixt her elders, “I’ve been seeing one’a them men who runs the steel mill! ‘E brings me to the opera’n everything!” she gave another wail, wiping her eyes on her olive-toned arm, “I think ‘e might wont me ta be ‘is mistress, but if ‘e thinks I lost that necklace… Tha’ necklace costs more ‘an my room, Beatrice!”

Beatrice found it difficult to appear sympathetic. The necklace hiding deep within the confines of her corset represented the most money she had ever seen in her life! Friend or not, she wasn’t giving that up! But she had to do something… Her mind went through several scenarios and she was only brought out of them when she felt a trembling hand on her arm.

“Wot love? Sorry, ‘m still not quite awake…” 

“I asked, did you remember anyfing that ‘appened last night? I know I wasn’t wearing it!”

Thinking quickly, Madame Thénardier replied “Well… We went back ta your room, then went out ‘gain… It wosn’t too late… We went back ta the pub… An’ then…” She pursed her lips, as though trying to remember what had happened, “’M not sure… Maybe ya got it when we went back?”

“Maybe…. I don’t know why I would’ve though…” Anne replied, sinking deeper into her despair, “What am I s’pposed ta do, m’dame? I’m ta see ‘im Friday!”

“I’m sure it’ll turn up, love. Go look through your room ‘gain, it’s such a bleedin’ mess anyway…. If ya really can’t find it, I’ll see wot I can do. Alrigh’?” advised Beatrice, looking somber, yet comforting to disguise the franc signs which were appearing in her eyes.

“Well… If ya really think so…” Sniffled the prostitute as she pushed herself up from the chair, rubbing the tears from her brown eyes, “You’re a real friend, m’dame….” She gave a watery smile and excused herself just as abruptly as she’d invited herself in.

Had she not already been seated, _la Thénardiesse_ would have sunk to the chair. “Wot ta do…” She’d spoken herself into a corner; usually that was her husband’s job, not hers! Speaking of…

The master of the house came down from the window, convinced that wherever Éponine was, she was not within earshot of the precarious ledge.

“Wot’re ya waitin’ ‘round for? Sweep tha’ up,” he commanded, nodding to the remains of the shattered bowl.

Paying her husband no heed, Beatrice retrieved the necklace from the pocket sewn into her corset and turned it over in her hands a few times, “Wot ta do now…” she repeated

“Wa’s that?” questioned Pierre, snatching it from her and glancing it over, “’s this what she was whingin’ about?”

“Yeah. I nicked it last nigh’. Didn’t think it wos real…” She trailed off, turning to look up at her husband in mild annoyance.

“That’s m’girl!” He grinned, giving her a quick peck on the cheek before examining the necklace closer, “we’ll get a’ least a thousand for this!”

“Slow down there, _batard_. ‘Ow’re we gonna pawn this off? S’pposin’ she runs ta the law?” chided the more practical of the two.

“’Er? She ain’t registered is she? Nah, she wouldn’t.”

“Alrigh’, supposin’ this man’a her’s does. Then what, mm?”

Giving into his wife’s nagging, Pierre rolled his eyes and sat across from her. He tossed the necklace into the middle of the table, though he kept his eyes on Beatrice.

“Then wot’re you proposin’?”

“I don’t know yet! If you’d shut up for once, maybe I could think…”

“No need ta get snippy, _ma belle_ ,” he called sarcastically.

“Sod off,” came the response, as his advice had gone, once again, unheeded.

“Fine, but will ya clear the floor ‘fore someone bleeds ta death? I can’ find the girl anywhere!”

Reluctantly, Madame stood from the chair and went to retrieve a hand broom. She cursed her lazy daughter under her breath, though was a bit concerned. Though Éponine did tend to leave the house, she usually came back for lunch. Which reminded her, she’d need to go to the market after she’d brushed up the shards.

After disposing the fragments of the last wedding gift they had left to their name, Beatrice retrieved her purse which had been tossed to a corner of the room last night. “’M goin’ out.” She called to Pierre, who had taken to the window sill again. He nodded dismissively and hung his hands on the upper edges of the wooden, splinter-dotted frame.

When Beatrice shut the door with a slight thud, the master of the house began muttering to himself. As much as his wife’s nagging irritated him, she did have a point; they would have to pawn this off without being traced.

“Wot ta do…” He wet his lips with his tongue, inadvertently quoting his wife’s earlier chant. “Wot ta do…”

He spent the next half hour or so pacing the room, his devious calculator of a mind thinking up plot after plot, each more elaborate, ridiculous, and more likely to fail than the last. Perhaps they could get Éponine to sell it, somewhere in the rich part of town? No, not even a blind, deaf beggar would take their daughter for a lady wealthy enough to lawfully possess jewels like this. If they stretched their luck, they could sell it cold-blank on the street… But they wouldn’t get half what it was worth, and that thought broke the man’s heart. There had to be something they could do.

He turned the necklace in his hands over and over, looking for any kind of feature which would set it from any other necklace; unfortunately, there was a stamp on the back of one of the jewel’s insets. “Félix Bracquemond, eh? Classy.” Letting it sift through his fingers several times, the good Monsieur finally let it slide to the table with a soft thud, disgusted with his inability to think up a plot. Was he losing his touch?


	3. In Which Pierre Devises a Cunning Plan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pierre finally rattles his brain enough to come up with a very cunning plan indeed. Unfortunately, his sense of direction is as wonky as his moral compass. Trailing future victims makes this all the more trying - will Pierre manage to make his way home with an unbroken nose in this thrilling installment?

At that moment, Beatrice returned with her small cloth bag laden with a loaf of dark bread, a bottle of brandy, and a bit of yellow butter. “Lunch’s up. ‘As the girl come home yet?”

Pierre began shaking his head, though at that very moment, the mousy, brown-haired girl clamored through the window, looking pale and winded.

“Speak’a the devil,” quipped her mother sarcastically, “An’ just where’ve you been? Your fatha’ ‘n I were worried sick!” Perhaps an overstatement, as they’d spent the better part of three hours talking about how to sell a stolen necklace, but they didn’t particularly _want_ to lose their daughter.

Catching her breath, the poor girl leaned against the wall behind her and rubbed her forehead, “I… I was chased, _maman_! It wasn’t my fault, a man just came out of nowhere! I spent the night hiding so he wouldn’t know where we live!”

Snorting derisively, Pierre peered at her from over his shoulder, “’Oo’d be chasin’ you, Éponine? You’re as paranoid’s your motha is.”

Stamping her foot in annoyance, the brunette folded her arms over each other and pouted, “He was! ‘E followed me for four blocks b’fore I started running, an’ then ‘e started runnin’ too!”

“Calm down luv, come ‘ere,” said Beatrice in a softer tone than she typically employed. Obediently, she sat beside her mother and let her stroke her slender, pale arm.

“Now, wot were ya doin’? You weren’t pickpocketin’ were ya?”

“No, _maman_ , I was just walking around… I was looking for…” She flushed slightly and turned her head, “I was just walkin’.”

Deciding to strategically ignore what Éponine was hiding, Beatrice sighed and started cutting a few crustlettes of bread, smearing them economically with butter, and handing one to each member of the family, unwilling to haul water to clean plates. “Where were ya?”

“Outside tha’ pawn shop, on the _Rue Leopold_. He came out of the shop, flipped the open sign ‘round, and started following me. I dunno why, ‘e just did!”

Madame Thénardier was about to speak when her husband interrupted her, “The pawn shop ya said?”

Blinking and unaware of the business with the necklace, Éponine nodded and took a bite of her bread before speaking, “Yes papa, near the Western side of town.”

“Really…” He said, seeming unconcerned that his daughter had very nearly been assaulted, “Int’restin’…”

“Wot’re ya thinkin’ about, Pierre?”

“Nofin’ _chérie_ , nofin’,” he excused, obviously distracted by something, “Éponine, _petite_ , wot ‘appened after tha’?”

Blinking blearily through a few remaining tears, the brunette wiped her eyes and continued, “’E chased me for nearin’ about an hour, then I ducked down in a bar an’ stayed the nigh’…”

“An’ you’re sure ya lost him?”  
“Yes, papa, I’m sure!” she assured, becoming more and more distraught.

“Calm down, calm down, it’s okay, you’re safe now,” whispered her mother as she pressed Éponine to her breast.

“Yeah, you’re fine, _ma petite_ ,” echoed her father, patting Eponine’s bird-like shoulder clumsily. Then he picked up a portion of bread, leaned up against the wall, and crossed one lanky leg across the other. He chewed on the slightly stale bread thoughtfully, gazing out the window. It seemed that he had fixed his calculator.

After Beatrice calmed her down, she laid her daughter down on the mattress; despite having slept the night before, the young woman looked like death. The thin blanket was tucked around her boney frame and she dropped off quickly.

“God I’d feel better if she’d gain some weight,” muttered her nervous mother as she worked on the grain-laden bread, “Wot kinda man’s she gonna attract lookin’ like that?”

“Mmhm, you’re righ’ _chérie_ …” replied her husband, obviously still stuck in his head.

“Alrigh’, wot’ve ya been thinkin’ about?” asked Beatrice skeptically, “Ya neva agree wif me tha’ easy.” 

“Well, my disbelieving little wife, I wos jus’ thinkin’ wot kinda fatha I’d be, if I couldn’t protect my little girl?” He mused with a swarthy grin.

“The kind who’s neva cared ‘fore. Wot’re ya up to?” She repeated

“I’ve a plan _, m’amour_ , an’ it involves you getting’ ta keep your whorish little friend, ‘n’ I’ll keep the profit,” he smirked and picked up the ruby necklace, sitting across from Beatrice for a plotting session.

Though she would have typically had a sharp retort, the woman held her tongue; complain as she might about her husband’s failures as a father and lover, he was a master of scheming.

“Go on,” she said through a mouthful of seeds.

“We stake the pawnshop; figure out who’s workin’ when, keep an eye on the place…”

“An’ then?”

“We break in, leave the necklace, mark it in the ledger, take the cash, an’ run!” 

Dumbstruck and wondering whether this was pure genius or the worst idea she’d ever heard, she repeated, “An’ then?”

“We go ta your friend, tell ‘er we saw the necklace when we wos confrontin’ the _batard_ ova little Éponine getting’ chased, an’ we get off scott-free. Migh’ even get a nice little reward for our valien’ efforts,” he laid his hands over his heart in mock-worship, grinning at her; he’d really done it this time.

“Pierre Thénardier, ya _batard_ ,” said his wife with a slow grin, “I knew there wos a reason I married ya.” Swallowing her bread, she gave him a rare, deep kiss as she leaned over her shoulder.

After they parted, he smirked up at her and toyed with her hair, “An’ here I wos, thinkin’ it wos them poems.”

Blushing a bit even after all those years, she smacked his shoulder, “You wos as bad at writin’ then as ya are now, ya old fox.”

“Per’aps, but you’ve gotten no betta at readin’ eifa, my dove.”

“We’ve gotta pull this off ‘fore Thursday. We don’t wont ‘er goin’ to the law,” redirected a very embarrassed Beatrice.

“Easy. We’ll ‘ave our money in three days.”

“Good. Now, tha’ girl gave me a splittin’ ‘eadachae…” She took the bottle of brandy and knocked back several shots worth before her husband berated her for being greedy and drank the rest of it.

Frail Éponine woke up from her cat nap soon after and was all but force-fed by her mother. She was slightly peeved that her parents had polished off the brandy, but there was nothing to be done about it. As she munched on the butter-laden slice of bread, Pierre and Beatrice shared a glance, agreeing that they shouldn’t tell Éponine about their plan. Though they loved their girl, in the most distant way possible, she couldn’t be trusted. She wasn’t cut out for the life they lived; she was too fragile, too sentimental.

It was mid-afternoon by the time she finished her meal, though the only way to tell was by the sun, weakly poking its head out from behind the clouds and sinking towards the western horizon. Standing and popping his neck with a loud crack, Pierre announced his plans for the evening.

“I ‘fink I’ll go for a walk,” he pointedly looked at his wife. She rolled her eyes; he was a terrible liar, and he always had been.

“Fair ‘nuff. Eponine’n’ I’ll go ta market. See wot we can find.”

Éponine looked to her mother as though she was going to object, but resigned herself after a moment of reflection. Another evening of being nagged at to find a husband; she could hardly wait. She could already hear her mother’s voice, “I wos already pregnan’ wif you when I wos your age…” God help her.

Beatrice picked up her purse and wrapped a ratty, faded white shawl around her shoulders.

“Éponine, put somefin’ on. You’ll catch your death”

“It’s August, _maman_!”

“Listen ta your motha, girl.”

Giving a long-suffering sigh, she threw her rag around her elbows. After she’d been bundled up as tightly as she had when she was a tot, Éponine and her mother left the apartment. Pierre gave the pair several minutes before he got ready for his “walk.” He gathered a pad and lead stick, a different hat in case he had to disappear into the crowd, and a pair of glasses. Not the best disguise, but it would do under pressure.

Weaving through the masses, the good Monsieur found his way by following the sun. Brussels was just as medieval a town as Paris, and had as many twists, turns, and back alleys. Surely they would come in handy someday, though for the moment, they only served as an irritating complication between him and several thousand francs. He instinctively kept away from policemen, which were sprinkled into the mass of shoppers like blue-gilled fish in a pond of minnows, even though he had no reason to anymore. It was odd, knowing that he had no criminal record here. Hiding from the law had been his state in life since he was 16, having spent his first stint in jail for stealing a lady’s ring. He’d played it safe, making certain he behaved, and weaseled his way out the next day by selling out a few of his cronies.

Eventually, after getting lost down several alleys, cursing God, and making acquaintance forcibly with several walls, Pierre came upon the shop that his daughter had been blathering about. He’d struck gold this time, in that he’d ended up in another slum. Perhaps a bit more respectable than his current residence, but not enough for a lawman to care. The shop was run-down to say the least. A wooden sign, nearly rotting and on its last hinges, declared that it to belonged to a man called Lambert. The display in the window was nothing to look at twice. A half-stringed violin with most of the varnish rubbed away, a china doll missing one eye and a hand, a dingy copper vase, all supported by a table which was covered with a shabby red velvet cloth. Yes, this would do beautifully.

The building across the street was, luck of luck, a café. Though it pained him to spend a single _sou_ on any beverage which wasn’t alcoholic, he knew that he’d have to spend money to make money. Ordering a cup of coffee, he took a seat on a wobbly, iron-wrought chair and began his stake-out. A few people trailed in and out, though it seemed most of them were only there to sell, rather than buy. He could understand the shopkeeper’s pain, though he strategically chose not to. Pity tended to ruin heists.

He kept a careful track of every man and woman who passed through the doors, judging their clothes and attempting to extrapolate their occupations. He was thorough in his work, if nothing else. The coffee was left largely untouched and grew cold as the afternoon dragged on and the waiter’s stares became harsher and harsher. At seven o clock, a balding, middle-aged portly man walked outside the pawn shop and flipped the faded, off-white sign to “closed.” This was really what the Thénardier had been waiting for; a closing time. The second most important part of the heist; when it would be safest to creep through the shop.

Pierre thought it was Christmas come early when he saw what happened next; the portly man, presumably called Lambert, locked the door, hat under his arm, and began to walk away. Generally, he would be envious of any man who did not live in his shop, but this was the equivalent of a “get away from the law free” ticket. Nobody to wake up, nobody to disturb, nobody to call the police. He was tempted to pull the heist that night, but feared that the man might be the type to come into work early. He would do one more day of research before he came back.

As he thought this, he felt a heavy breath upon his neck and turned around to see a fairly incensed man, thin but muscular, younger than Pierre by at least a decade.

“You gonna buy somethin’ else, or’m I gonna ‘ave to throw you out?”

“I’ve done my bit,” retorted Pierre, referring to the stone-cold coffee grounds, though standing to leave all the same, “But I think the air’s turned ratha antagonistic. I’ll be on my way.”

He jumped the small, enclosing fence around the patio and dashed down the street. He was quite agile for a man of his age, turning the corner before the presumed owner of the café had realized he’d been stiffed.

The sun was setting along the horizon by the time Pierre climbed the stairs to their apartment. He returned to the sight of his Beatrice and Éponine finishing the now slightly stale bread from lunch as their dinner. There was one more slice left, which Pierre quickly swept up, muttering about ungrateful women, though he was in far too good of a mood to get really upset.

Éponine looked relieved that he had come in, as her mother was about to go into her “why aren’t you married yet” speech for the third time that evening. “You were out for a long time, _papa_.”

“I wos scopin’ out an alley, _petite_ ,” he nearly sang; he was rarely in such _bon humeur_ , and he hadn’t had much practice with disguising it.

She seemed surprised, since the general mood when she’d gotten home had been one of pensive hopelessness. “Wot’d you knick, papa?”

“Nofin’, _ma petite_ , nothin’ at all!” He grinned and kissed the confused girl’s head before doing the same to his wife, smearing butter on each. Beatrice rolled her eyes as she wiped the grease from her hair, though she smiled still; apparently this wasn’t going to be difficult.

Éponine, after she’d finished her crust, decided to turn in. She didn’t much fancy going out that night, after what had happened yesterday. She lay down on the bed they shared, curing up under the blankets with the knowledge that she’d have to forfeit them to her elders once they passed out. Hopefully they would stay up long enough for her to get to sleep – Pierre snored horribly, which woke the poor girl up if she wasn’t already deep in sleep.

Their daughter would get her wish tonight, as the two sewer rats had been known to spend hours planning heists. Beatrice lit a candle in anticipation, a rare treat. Wax was far more expensive than it needed to be, and as such, so were candles. She blew out the match just as it began to graze her calloused fingertips, making her curse lightly.

“Now then, wot’d ya find out?” Asked the wife, putting the candlestick down on the wobbly table.

“The shopkeep leaves at seven. Doesn’t ‘ave anyone else ‘round, an’ ‘e lives elsewhere,” he said with a grin.

“Lucky _batard_ …” muttered Beatrice, “Still… Should make thin’s easy. Any otha way ta get in ‘sides the front?” 

“Dunno, but from the looks’a it, there oughta be a way ‘round back. I’ll need you ta go out t’mmorow, though. Don’ wonna look suspicious.”

“You always look suspicious,” she chided, though consented the reason for alarm, “Where’s this place again?”

“Keep ta the west, it’s not ‘ard ta find. Even you could, if ya tried,” he said with a smirk, smoothly glossing over the hour he’d spent bumbling around in dead ends, “Lambert’s. Not too common’a name.”

“Wot kinda place is it? Would they ‘ave a necklace li’ this normally?”

“God, no! We’ve got it more legally than they would.”

“This seems too easy,” replied Beatrice with a slight pout.

“You’re too paranoid,” scolded Pierre, “Just accept tha’ the Good Lord’s finally given us our due.”

This elicited a snort from the wife, which caused the candle to go out. Not wanting to waste another match, they took this to mean that they should go to bed. They ambled their way to the mattress were Éponine slept peacefully, undisturbed by the nearly full moon’s light which filtered through the window like gossamer dust. They wrestled around until the quilt was nearly wide enough to cover all three of them. Pierre slept between the women, one arm wrapped loosely around his wife’s impossibly tiny waist, while Éponine faced the other way. They’d all drifted off by midnight, exhausted by the day’s capers.


	4. In Which Beatrice Hears Some Intriguing Gossip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Beatrice critiques her significant Bother's work, and decides that if one has to case a pawn shop, one should do it themselves.

The next morning went according to plan, as Beatrice quietly woke up at seven, with the crow of the cock and the rise of the sun. The morning was filled with dew, still in the air since there was no vegetation for it to settle on. It would cause fog to form, or perhaps steam if it became hot enough in the hours to come. The sleepy city began to wake; servants had already left their apartments, while businessmen would take another hour to leave. It was a strange lull to exist in.

The good wife wrapped her shawl around her shoulders, grabbing a very faded bonnet and a pair of sunglasses. They must have stolen them off someone with syphilis, as the lenses were tinted blue, but they would have to do for the day; they were the only pair they had which didn’t slip down her tiny nose. She glanced in the window, angling her chin to get a good reflection in the dim morning sun so she could apply her lipstick and chalk. She attempted to wrestle her unruly locks into a bun on the back of her head, but she was out of hair pins, so she frustratedly tied them into two ponytails, tucking them into the once-yellow bonnet. Sighing, Madame Thénardier picked up her purse and began to creep along the streets.

There were a few people dotting the landscape: a family of beggars which she dutifully ignored, an over-zealous policeman out for the few thieves who followed the early bird approach, several servants who would be beaten for being late to their stations, and half a dozen law clerks who intended on being at work before their employers, presumably angling for a pay raise. It was an interesting lot, to say the least. The shattered yellow light from the sun began to heat up the streets, causing the mist to turn to steam off the cobblestones. It was going to be a very sticky day, theorized Madame as she pushed a few strands of damp hair from her neck.

Making sure the sun kept behind her, she managed to find the street in little time; she had always been the more geographically inclined of the pair. The streets had become a bit more crowded, which suited the Thénardier well; they were masters of the crowd, capable of slipping in and out, unseen and unfelt, only thought about in those confusing moments hours later when a man wondered what had happened to his pocket watch, or a lady could not remember where she had placed a hair bauble. They occupied the shadows, the hiding-holes, the places others dared not go; it suited them well.

The café had just opened its doors to the public, occupied by a sleepy looking young man working the stove. He had paint smeared on his cheek, an orange colored oil mixed with a bit of blue. Whatever hopes he had, they appeared to be quite high. That said, he was startled when the blue-spectacled woman arrived; his first customers were typically the shopkeeps of the slum, and it was odd to see new faces around. She quietly asked for a cup of coffee, nodding when the man told her it would be a few minutes yet. He was quite apologetic, and was relieved when the woman seemed understanding. She said that she would wait on the patio, if that was quite alright; of course it was.

Pleased with herself, she settled into a chair and drew an old romance rag from her bag. Unlike her husband, she was capable of creating an alibi for herself. Not a flattering one, perhaps, but an alibi was an alibi. She made her notes in the margins of the rag, taking special interest when she noticed the same, balding man from the previous day enter the shop, a few minutes after eight. He didn’t flip the sign just yet, though, apparently preparing the shop in some way. The painter-turned-waiter set a cup of hot coffee in front of Beatrice, along with a small cup of cream and even sugar, no cost! Madame thanked him prettily, but did not take her eyes from the shop; she had more important things to worry about than even the cost of sugar.

She lazed about in the unyielding chair, flicking through the pages of the book; “ _He took her in his arms, swaying about before laying a long, lingering kiss upon her soft, pleading lips…”_ Ah! If only her marriage was made as such! She fluttered her eyes closed as she briefly indulged the fantasy, but jolted back to reality just in time to see the shop door across the sheet close, with the sign flipped about to “open”. She glanced at the clock tower and made note that it was three minutes past nine. Not a very punctual man was the supposed Lambert. She made a note of the time in the margin, right after Hambert stroked Mariana’s silvery-blonde hair.

Beatrice made sure to flick her eyes up every now and then, making note of those poor souls who had come to pawn off their most treasured possessions, wedding rings and baby carriages, as well as the few who seemed interested in purchasing. The latter category was much smaller, obviously.

The morning seemed to draw on and on; even though she was a slow reader, she managed to get to the end of the penny-novel before noon struck through the town, letting out the floodgate for hungry businessmen and poor factory workers who would have their fifteen minutes while their bosses had an hour. So cruel was life in the city, so fleeting and work-filled. If one bothered to work, that is; Beatrice, though she complained profusely, much preferred her means of living.

Her boredom paid off, though, as her target checked out at noon for lunch. Being blessed with enough disposable income to buy lunch for himself, he meandered across the street to the very café she sat at. He ordered the soup of the day, which was theoretically composed of rabbit and potato - though most of the customers knew better - and sat down inside. The door to the patio was open, however, as the only thing worse than a muggy day was a muggy day with a hot stove going in a small, wooden building; a blessing, as the man seemed more than willing to discuss his woes with passers-by.

“Has it been a fruitful day, Monsieur?” asked the young, paint-stained waiter.

“Not too bad, not too bad at all, dear boy. Finally got rid’a those old rings.”

“The silver?”

“The very ones.”

“Any sign of that girl? I can’t stop thinking of her, monsieur.”  
“Nah, she got away from me.”

“What, were you chasing her?” the young man asked, half in disbelief and half in horror.

“What else wos I supposed ta do?”

“Call out for her! Not stalk her like some gazelle on the Sahara!”

“Well you should’a been more specific then.”

The waiter sighed, shaking his head, “I’ve been trying to get her out of my head since I saw her, I’ve been painting her, but nothing! I must know her name, Lambert!”

“If I see ‘er, I’ll tell ya, alright?”

“Yeah, I’d appreciate that…” Sighed the poor young man, wearily going back to his station.

Beatrice’s ears were perked like a dog’s at the information; her girl? Her girl that had been chased down the street? Her Éponine had caught the attention of a young man? Perhaps she took more after her mother than she thought… After quickly dashing down that Lambert took his lunch very seriously, she quickly began thinking of ruses for her daughter to use; her parents were very wealthy, and out of town at the moment while she was volunteering her time to a charity – no! She was a noblewoman, fled from Paris during the scuffle without much to her name but a title… Yes, that would do well; anything to get the girl tied off. If she remained unmarried a few more years she’d be called a spinster, and that simply wouldn’t do. Another person in the house meant more they had to spend on food and theoretically clothing, though Beatrice and Pierre had been making do with the same three sets of clothing since they were married.

She would have to think this through.

Noting that her coffee cup had run dry, the young man traveled to her table next and asked if she would take another; she nodded and thanked him, gritting her teeth as she tallied up the cost. The damn Turks were holding out on the rest of Europe again, and it seemed as though the whole of the continent refused to buy American varieties. Ah well; that necklace would fetch a pretty price, particularly since it would be set on her own terms, with no obnoxious negotiating to deal with.

Deciding that there was nothing more to be gained after several more hours of the stakeout, Beatrice stood and paid for the coffee; nearly one franc. She passed the coins over the counter bitterly, though attempted to keep a passive smile on her face. She really couldn’t stand paying for things, especially when money was so tight. The waiter gave her a smile as she left the café, bidding her _au revoir_. She mentioned the same, knowing that they would indeed meet again.

Her low heels clacking against the cobblestone, Beatrice’s eyes glanced about the building on the left side of the street; it was low and squat, one story high, roof only slightly collapsing. It was generally in a state of disrepair, though it fit with the rest of the stores on the street. It was odd that the man could afford a separate apartment and not to fix his storefront, but if Beatrice knew anything about good business decisions, they wouldn’t be in their current sorry state. She opened the door to the shop, which creaked and groaned before a bell clashed and signaled her entrance.

Lambert looked up at her for a brief moment, intrigued by a new customer with nothing in her arms to sell. “Can I ‘elp you, m’dame?” 

“I’m just lookin’, thanks,” clarified Beatrice, choosing not to disclose what exactly she was looking for.

The man’s face fell into a scowl, though he allowed her to look around; it was always worth a shot.

Beatrice noted that the shop was laid out in a rather odd, labyrinthine fashion; the register was to the right of the door, while there were at least twelve shelves, ceiling to floor, to the left of the door, stacked with an assortment of every kind of junk and trinket that could be found on the continent of Europe. Chipped china, fragments of frames, busted bracelets and all other dusty articles that could be found in a shop of such repute dwelled within the shop, some for days and some for years without being picked up once. It was very nearly tragic, but _la Thénardiesse_ looked upon this with glee; the man was at least as poor as her family was, and was thus as likely to be scrutinized by the law. She did not notice any other methods of ingress to the shop, aside from the front door, but there were several windows around the sides which would easily be picked in the night. They didn’t even appear to be locked. She picked up and put down a few of the trinkets, feigning interest in a baby’s rattle and a half-broken lamp before she waved to her future victim and bid him good day.


	5. In Which the Plan is put into Action

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beatrice attempts to mother her daughter with a heavy hand, while breaking into a pawn shop with a light one. A more law-abiding citizen would reverse the terms, but by that token, a more law-abiding citizen wouldn't have gotten herself in this situation.

It was nearly supper time when Beatrice finally opened the door to the apartment. Éponine had hauled water for the night; it was about time, they’d been telling her to do so for nearly a week. Unfortunately, the girl seemed to have inherited her parents’ lazy streaks, which both ran about a mile long. Pierre was washing his face in the wooden basin, while Éponine was attempting to toast bread in the squat furnace which served as their only means of heat. Beatrice set her purse down on the table as a means of signaling her arrival, but if it was noticed, it went unmentioned. Rolling her eyes, she checked the cupboards for the last bit of jam she’d been saving; she was in a particularly good mood after what she’d learned that day. They would be ready to carry out the heist that night, provided they could get Éponine out of the house.

Finally, the girl looked up from the fire and pushed a strand of her hair behind a tiny ear, “Did you have a good day, _maman_? Where were you?” 

“Just scopin’ out a few potentials, _ma fifille_. Wot’ve you done today?”

“Chores, _maman._ I brushed the floors and drew the water and scrubbed the iron,” She said, obviously fishing for some sort of reward. Never-the-less, Beatrice felt the need to dote on her one and only, as she always had.

“Wot a good girl,” she said with a smile, kissing the girl’s cheek as she had when she was a tot. Éponine seemed to resent the attention, but didn’t say much about it.

“You’d make such a good wife, _petite_ , ya’ve gotta start puttin’ yourself out there again,” chided Beatrice, eliciting a tired groan from her daughter. “Listen now, I’ve found a _nice_ boy, he’s _workin’_ , an’ ‘e says ‘e’s interested,” she said, her voice taking on an almost pleading tone. She adored her daughter, but she certainly wasn’t getting younger. “Ya know, I wos already married ta your fatha when I wos your age!”

“Course, ya told me you wos 18 an’ blonde,” muttered Pierre as he dried his face on his shirt.

“Yeah, an’ you said you wos rich, so we’re even,” retorted his wife before she realized that he was making her point for her, “but, _ma fifille_ , ya undastand wot ‘e’s sayin’ don’t’cha? Ya’ve gotta start lookin’ at least.”

Exhausted by the lecture and the day’s heavy chores, Éponine took the slice of bread from the furnace and shut her eyes. “Fine, _maman_ , if it will make you feel better, I’ll meet him, alright, but stop nagging me about it!”

Smiling smugly to herself, _la Thénardiesse_ stood, her back cracking in protest as she did so, and turned. Éponine was three minutes from stalking out of the apartment, it seemed, which was exactly what she needed. She took a slice of bread for herself, but forwent the toasting process as she didn’t mind a bit of staleness. Spreading the jam across the surface of the bread, she offered a falsely innocent remark. 

“Ya know, _ma chérie_ , maybe if ya started tyin’ your corset tight again, I wouldn’t ‘ave to arrange meetin’s for ya.”

“ _MAMAN_! For God’s sake!” Cried poor Éponine, clearly at her wit’s end. She stood to face her mother, attempting to look assertive. Even though she had a good four inches on her mother, the effect was less than intimidating. “I’m twenty now, maman, I can take care of myself!”

“Ya got chased down the street for near an’ about an hour two days ago, ‘Ponine,” her father helpfully offered, causing the girl to storm out of the apartment, slamming the door behind her.

Beatrice couldn’t help but chuckle, turning to face her husband, “She’s worse’an I wos at ‘er age.”

“I dunno, _m’amour_ , you wos pretty spitfire back then.”

“Either way, she’s gone,” Beatrice replied, retrieving the romance novel from her bag. She opened it and ran through the notes she’d made; every customer that walked through the doors, what had been bought, what had been sold, the interior of the shop, and most importantly, that they had to clear out of the shop before seven in the morning, for good measure.

“This’s gonna be child’s play, Beatrice,” smirked Pierre, grinning at his wife over the table, “We’ll be rich ‘nuff ta move out by Friday.”

“An’ t’night’s the night. Éponine won’t come back ‘till dawn, so we gotta make it count.”

“I thought you wos bein’ more persistent than usual.” 

“Well, she really oughta find someone,” she grumbled, taking off her wedding ring as she always did before a heist. Pierre did the same, leaving them in a small box they kept under the mattress; they had almost had them stolen when they were newly-weds, and they had religiously made sure they didn’t wear them when they were likely to get caught in the act of making a living ever since.

It was nearly ten o clock when they left. Beatrice wore a faded, lavender bonnet which only slightly clashed with the brown dress she’d worn for nearly ten years. Her husband wore a low-brimmed hat and a pair of glasses on the end of his nose. The necklace was pushed up against Beatrice’s ribcage, as it was confined to the pocket sewn into her corset. The two weren’t quite what you’d call inconspicuous, especially considering how tall Pierre was, but it was dark and there was still a large crowd to disappear into, which they did as soon as humanly possible. They tread lightly, attempting to get back into the habit of sneaking about; they had both very nearly fallen out of practice since their months spent in Paris. Still, there were more suspicious groups than even they, and Beatrice looked as though she knew where she was going. That was enough to keep the policemen off their backs, so long as they stayed away from the few gas lanterns that lit the streets.

A half hour spent in silence lead them to their destination. The masses in the streets had thinned a bit and most of the shop lights had gone out; that was good news for the prospective thieves. They quietly padded to the alleyway behind the pawn shop, ready to plan their next move.

“The only way in’s through the window,” whispered Beatrice, pointing to the window that was nearly a foot over her head. “I don’t think ‘e keeps it locked, though.”

Pierre looked up and nodded, reaching a lanky arm up to find that he could quite easily reach the windowsill. “Shouldn’ be too difficult then. I’ll lift ya up, alrigh’?”

She nodded, leaning over to tie her skirt up around her knees; they’d obviously gone through this routine several times before, “I’ll find a chair an’ pull ya up. Ready?”

Nodding silently and holding stock-still against the wall, noting that several passers-by had very nearly looked in their direction, Pierre laced his thick fingers together and bent over, waiting for his wife to finish with her skirt. Giving three grunts as warning, Beatrice held onto Pierre’s shoulder with one hand and gave a slight jump to help him lift her; light as she was, her husband was beginning to feel the disadvantages of old age, and the last thing they needed at the moment was for one of them to break their back. With another grunt, Beatrice was lifted up to the window; it was unlocked, as she had speculated, so it was child’s play to open it. She grasped the soft wood of the windowsill and began to heave herself over the barrier. Her brown eyes glinted as she looked about the shop by the dim light of the full moon which streamed in through the dusty windows.

Nobody was about, and the register was far enough in the shadows that they wouldn’t be noticed. Still half-hanging out the window, she began to delicately turn herself around, boot-clad feet looking for a chair, bench, or counter to drop onto. Gritting her teeth, she made note that the closest ledge was three feet away, which was too long a distance for the tiny woman to swing. She’d have to let herself drop and hope for the best. She grit her teeth together and let her hands slip from the splintery ledge, grunting as she fell to the ground.

These sounds were perfectly normal for this sort of job, so her accomplice stayed in the shadows; it wasn’t worth voicing concern, lest they both get caught for being too chatty. Leaning against the wall, his beetle-like eyes glanced about the alley to make certain they weren’t being watched. The stream of gentlemen running home to wives and families gradually turned to one of vagrants and drunkards, unconcerned with the world outside the distorted one they saw through liquor-lenses. The light of the full-moon was both his companion and his enemy; it cast shadows about which were invaluable to the thief, but if he were caught in it, there was nowhere to run. Hopefully it wouldn’t come to that.

Beatrice, meanwhile, was attempting to find a chair which would be tall enough for her to reach over the window. The unfortunate truth of the shop, however, was that anything suitably tall was too rickety to serve the purpose. Finally compromising, _la Thénardiesse_ found several large boxes, which seemed to have been former property of a lumber company. She stacked them atop each other, and climbed up the tower they made. It wasn’t as sturdy as she would like, but it would do for their cause.

Pierre glanced up once his wife had clamored to the windowsill, nodding to her as he reached up for her hands. She wrapped her tiny, calloused fingers around his wrists, and he grasped her arms likewise. They argued with each other loudly enough to wake hell, insulted everything from each other’s intellect to appearance, and often voiced that they regretted no decision more than their marriage, but when push came to shove, their lives were in each other’s hands; sometimes quite literally. Giving one loud grunt of exertion, Beatrice managed to pull her husband through the window after her, straddling one of the boxes to keep her footing. Once the two had both descended safely, they smirked at each other in knowing recognition; old as they might be getting, they were still as adept as ever.

Beatrice retrieved the necklace from her undergarments, handing it off to Pierre to hide in plain sight. She would work on the cash register, as, unlike the window, it was locked, and of the two, she was more inclined to work with small mechanisms.

Slowly stepping into the moonlight, Pierre glanced at the window display once more; the violin had apparently been sold and was replaced by a baby carriage, which was occupied by the broken doll he had seen a few days before. A slow grin spread across his face as he clumsily unclasped the necklace; he didn’t dare break it, as that may take a toll on the reward money. He could hear tiny squeaks and metallic groans as Beatrice worked on the tumblers behind him; all was going exactly according to plan. Finally hearing the tiny click which meant the necklace had come undone, he placed the glistening, shining ring of gold and rubies around the neck of the doll, the new pride and joy of the shop. At least, until Pierre alerted the rightful owner; it felt odd working with the law, rather than under or against it.

“ _Que un batard! Putain, et maudis la salope!”_ came a sudden bout of hushed cursing from Beatrice’s direction.

Pierre stuck like glue to the wall, glancing about in the same twitchy, nervous way that a ferret uses to scope out prey, as he looked for the man who had spotted them. Coming up empty, he glared at his wife and hissed, “Goddamnit, keep your voice down, _greluche_! Wanna wake up the entire street, do ya?”

The good wife glanced up at him, absolutely livid; he hadn’t seen her so angry since Éponine had disrupted the _Rue Plumet_ job. Seething, she hissed back at him through clenched teeth, “Ya didn’t notice… Tha’ ‘e takes ‘ome…. The cash?”

“Wot’re ya talkin’ ‘bo…” He stopped mid-sentence, glancing at the now-open cash register, as empty as their own reserves, “Ah.”

“Yeah. Ah,” She scowled, tempted to smack him across the cheek for his neglect.

“Well I wos runnin’ outta time, ya know,” he rolled his eyes, remembering that he’d very nearly been chased in the same manner as his daughter that day.

“Does tha’ matta now? Wot’re we s’pposed ta do?”

“Mark it down in the ledger an’ leave.”

“Wot?! We ain’ leavin’ ‘ere empty-“

Pierre put a finger to her mouth, which infuriated her further, but did force her to be quiet; he was right, they didn’t need to wake up the rest of the street.

“Listen, if we leave now, everythin’s perfect; we can still turn ‘im in; tha’s wot’s important righ’ now. If we took anyfin’ else, there’d be no reason for the necklace ta still be ‘ere. Got me?”

Though she was visibly very unhappy, she had to concede the point; it was more important to build up a reputation than to make a few francs on stolen, broken, merchandise.

Pierre, being the better writer of the two, carefully dipped a pen in the slightly sticky ink at the register, making note of a necklace being added to inventory the day it had gone missing, with no entry in the “bought” slot – only an “x”. No matter how thick the police were, they had to understand that clue. The penmanship was nearly illegible, but it seemed to match Lambert’s; they had done their job perfectly.

Beatrice had already begun climbing out the window by the time he finished, leaving the last chore of closing the window to him, since he could reach with the use of only one box. One crate out of place would not raise the alarm, but a neatly stacked ladder would probably alert somebody to their mischief.

If the angle of the moon was to be trusted, it was barely midnight by the time all was said and done with. Not a bad heist at all, though Beatrice still seemed sore about not having anything in her purse. She untied her skirt, lest she be mistaken for a lady of the night, and began trotting back to their apartment. They walked in silence, trying not to be noticed amidst the drunks, pickpockets, and prostitutes that inhabited the streets when the respectable folks had all gone home. Without a criminal record, the Thénardiers hovered between the two classes, not rich enough to be respectable, but without the paperwork which could throw them behind bars.

The two seemed as calm as they would walking to the market; coming back from a robbery seemed to be their natural state in life, as commonplace as breathing or blinking. Once they had returned to their small room, they undressed; it was far too hot, even with the window open, to sleep in their day clothes. Granted, neither of them had a nightshirt any longer, but their daughter certainly wouldn’t be back before morning, so it was unnecessary anyhow. Feeling well-disposed towards life in general, they slept facing each other, arms wrapped around shoulders and waists, finding grooves that had been worn for more than twenty years. Tomorrow was the last hurtle; they would face it with pride.


	6. In Which Our Heroes Meet with the Law

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And they all lived happily ever after - or as well as the Thenardiers can ever expect to be

When the pair woke up on Thursday, their daughter was still hiding somewhere; unsurprising, really. She seemed to have friends in the city, though her parents had never met them. For some reason, Éponine seemed intent on keeping her mother and father away from people she regularly associated with; curious. Beatrice nudged Pierre’s arm, muttering that they had to be presentable today, if they were going to play the part of the good Samaritans. He groaned in protest, but relented and pushed himself to his feet.

“The girl not back?”

“Don’t seem like it. Wear your ‘at t’day, the blue one,” advised Beatrice as she began washing her face and hands in the basin of lukewarm water.

“Long as you don’t wear them ridiculous glasses,” came the reply, accompanied by a snort of derision.

“Well if you ‘adn’t sold the black pair, I wouldn’t ‘ave to wear ‘em, would I?”

Pierre was about to give a sharp retort, but was choked by his shirt collar as he accidently stumbled while putting on his trousers. This elicited a roar of laughter from Beatrice, who only half-glanced the event as she washed the lye soap from her brow. He rolled his eyes and brushed her off, tying a faded _cravat_ around the offending shirt collar in the window.

The rest of the morning passed without mishap; on the eleventh chime of the clock of a nearby factory, the Thénardiers began to put the last phase of their plan into action. They kept a steady pace, blending with the others around them. They wore their best, which was still shabby as a half-drowned cat, but could have placed them in the lower-middle class. That was their best hope, for the moment; to be mistaken for the class they had once belonged to. They didn’t seem to grasp the irony of their situation, even as they climbed the obnoxious stairs to young Anne-Marie’s apartment.

Beatrice reached up and rapped on the door three times with her knuckles. Hearing a muffled moan and a panicked, “Be there in a minute!” the two smirked at each other knowingly. They had purposefully waited until her work hours were over, but it seemed that had been useless. “Take your time, _ma copine_ ,” Beatrice called, leaning against the wall.

After several moments, a disheveled and barely decent Anne-Marie opened the door, makeup running down her sweat-beaded visage and dress haphazardly buttoned up in the front, each cork-button in the next hole up from where it should have been. She looked between the two and quietly closed the door behind her, brushing her hair behind her ear with a nervous hand.

“ _Bon matin, mes amis_ … I’m sorry, I wasn’t expecting company…” she murmured, wringing her hands.

“Seems li’ ya already ‘ave company,” Pierre said with a low chuckle, causing the young lady to blush.

“I really am sorry, it’s my, ah… This is my friend,” she nodded back to the room, then looked to Beatrice expectantly, “Is there any particular reason you’re ‘ere?”

“Yeah, actually,” said Pierre before Beatrice could respond.

“We’ve found your necklace…”

“It’s in a shop, a pawn shop...”

“On the _Rue Leopold_ …” 

“Belongs to a man called Lambert…”

“Right brute ‘e is. Chased our poor girl ‘alf way ta China.”

“Thought ya migh’ wanna know.”

Anne-Marie’s jaw dropped at this news as she stared between the two; she had very nearly given up hope of anybody finding the necklace, let alone the Thénardiers; Beatrice was her friend, but something about Pierre made him untrustworthy in the young woman’s eyes; never mind that it was actually his wife who had stolen the necklace.

“One moment, please,” muttered the prostitute as she slipped back into the apartment. Man and wife glanced at each other curiously; they hadn’t quite expected this sort of reaction from her, but young ones were unpredictable at the best of times. Who knew what was running through their heads?

Excited, hushed words were exchanged from within the rat’s nest, and two scant minutes after Anne-Marie had closed the door, she re-emerged, this time with a rather tall, mustachioed man behind her; his clothes were at least as ruffled as his young “friend’s”, and barely buttoned; he only wore his under-shirt and trousers, but apparently that was enough for this meeting.

“You said you’ve seen the necklace?” He inquired; he spoke in a heavy, German accent which looked as though it might send Pierre over the edge; even though the man had rarely seen fire during the war, he nursed a resentment towards the Prussians that was only rivaled in passion by his lust for gold. Beatrice, knowing this tendency, kept a secure arm around her husband’s waist to avoid any unfortunate slips of tongue.

“Yes, _Monsieur_ , in the western half of town,” she responded politely, having a feeling that this was the man most likely to pay her.

“Show me, now, if you would,” he said in a rushed, almost frantic tone. Everyone in that doorstep knew exactly what that necklace was worth, and that it wouldn’t be in a shop window for long if the right buyer caught sight of it.

Swallowing his nationalistic pride, Pierre gave a greasy grin and nodded, taking his wife’s hand to signify that he’d caught ahold of himself, “Of course, _Monsieur_. Follow me.”

“Us,” clarified Beatrice, as she was the only one who could find the street without getting lost.

“Us,” he repeated, resisting the urge to roll his eyes.

They began tripling down the stairs, the half-dressed pair in hot pursuit. The Prussian kept urging them to speed up, and within ten minutes the four of them were hurtling down the busy streets at a break-neck pace. Anne-Marie’s _patron_ looked around with wide eyes, trying to find something; one would have thought that being a few inches above the crowd would have given him an advantage. After another five minutes of running, during which Pierre nearly broke his nose by slamming into a wall, he stopped the group with a loud, incoherent yell; it sounded like German, but Monsieur Thénardier was too busy cursing about his nose to be upset about it.

The Prussian had been looking for a policeman, evidently, which he had found at last. He spoke to the man for several minutes as the others caught their breath. The officer was very suspicious of the group, but the man with whom he had spoken had flashed several hundred-franc notes, which made his case considerably more believable. He followed along as the four began to speed up again, only to be halted ten minutes later, by the only loose tie in the cunning plan; Éponine.

To be fair, typically seeing her parents with a policeman was not a good sign for the young pickpocket, so when she glanced up from talking with a friend of hers, she panicked; they paid the bills, they bought the food, and most importantly, she loved them. Very rarely had she ever seen one of her parents actually arrested, as they almost always weaseled themselves out of the act; however, she’d known what to do if she did see such an event since she was five years old. Cry, snivel, and try to distract the policeman long enough for _Maman_ and _Papa_ to get away. Not bothering to excuse herself from her friend, she ran up to the group and gripped the policeman’s arm firmly.

“ _Monsieur_! Please, don’t take them, I’m sure it’s some misund-umph!”

Before she could get through her speech, Pierre whipped around and quickly grabbed her own arm, and her mouth. Eponine’s face expressed confusion as the policeman looked quizzically between Pierre and his daughter.

Giving an oily smile, Pierre began excusing the behavior, “Forgive ‘er, _Monsieur_ , m’poor little dear’s not quite right in the ‘ead some days… Tha’s why the brute wos chasin’ ‘er, prob’bly thought she wos an easy target, _pauvre chose_ …”

Beatrice smiled, playing along well, and quickly took Éponine from him, whispering, “I’ll explain lata, jus’ come wif us,” to the brunette before smiling and gently patting her shoulder in an ostentatious display of motherly affection.

“Come on now, ‘s not more than a block away,” said the Frenchman hurriedly, before the man of the law could think about their situation for more than a few moments. Though he didn’t quite seem to buy it, this case kept getting more and more complicated, so he decided to ignore the excuse for the time being.

Once again, the Prussian, prostitute, policeman, and pickpockets continued their quest to the _Rue Leopold_ , beginning to attract quite a bit of curiosity from passers-by. They’d assembled quite a nice crowd as they stood outside the poor man’s store. If any interest in the necklace had been registered by the store’s owner, it hadn’t been acted upon, as it still hung around the doll’s neck in the window. Anne-Marie and her friend pressed their faces up against the glass, causing some rouge and powder to rub off on it as they verified the necklace’s authenticity.

Turning around to face the lawman, the Prussian gave a solemn nod. “That’s it, officer. That’s the necklace that’s been missing since Monday,” he turned to his mistress for verification, and she nodded as well.

“I didn’t lose it, it musta been stolen in the nigh’!”

The soiled window, not to mention the policeman, drew Lambert from his property, frowning as he looked between them all. His eyes lit up with surprise as he glanced Éponine, who was now trembling behind her parents; she didn’t much fancy being chased again. If she had known this was where they were headed, she probably would have tried to slip away, but it was far too late to think of that. Luckily, her nervous demeanor seemed to add to the credibility of their alibi, which was always appreciated

“Wot’s all this then?” asked the shopkeep in confusion; he’d been closing up for lunch, and now all this!

The officer looked between the suspect and the necklace and grunted, nodding to the window display, “Where’d you get that necklace?”

Frowning, Lambert turned to look to where the officer was pointing, starting in shock that such a necklace could even exist in the dingy world he inhabited.

“I-I don’t know, officer! It wosn’t there yesterday, God’s my witness!”

“I’ve heard that before,” muttered the man, beginning to corner the prime suspect, “Come here, you’re under arrest!”

Their plan was working beautifully; it almost brought Pierre to tears. Anne-Marie was slipping inside the shop to retrieve the necklace, quickly fastening it around her pale skin. She ran out to greet her patron, smiling hopefully.

‘I told you I’d find it, _mon loup_ , I did!”

Giving the first smile that day, he pecked her cheek and nodded, “You did indeed _, ma lutine_ , you did.” He whispered something in her ear which made her squeal with delight and give him a deep kiss, despite the fact that they were in public, being stared at by at least twenty sets of eyes.

“Of course…” he continued, only slightly dazed after the kiss, “We ought to thank the people who properly found it for us, shouldn’t we?”  
“Oh! Yes, _Monsieur, Madame_!” She turned their attention back to the Thénardiers, who had been watching in amusement until this point, “We really can’t thank you enough for your ‘elp!”

Watching the two closely, the Prussian reached into his trouser-pocket and retrieved several of those beautiful franc-notes he’d flashed earlier. “We are in your debt. But this might help.” He said, handing over five of the hundred-franc bills to Pierre, who was almost ready to collapse at the sight, then giving it a second thought, and handing over one more. “I would think that would be a start.”

“C-Course, course it is, _Monsieur_ , thank you so… So much,” Monsieur Thénardier managed to spit out, handing the bills to his wife reluctantly; she would be able to keep them safer, as there weren’t many pickpockets who specialized in the inside of a lady’s corset. She quickly deposited the cash in her regular spot for safe keeping, then looked across the street to the café to see if her young friend was working; seeing that he was, and taking advantage of the fact that her husband was still thanking her friend’s lover profusely, she slipped to the fence which enclosed the patio.

“ _Bonjour, Monsieur_ ,” she addressed him quietly, catching him with a start. She smiled at him none-the-less. “You served me yesterday,” she continued, making sure her annunciation was on-par with any middle-class lady, though it was difficult, “and I overheard you speaking with someone, that you had seen a young lady running down the street the other day.”

Looking rather stunned, the waiter nodded, “yes, actually, I had… Why does this concern you, Madame?” 

“Well, it just so happens that young lady is my daughter, and after discussing it with her, she would be very interested in meeting you. Her name is Éponine, by the way.”

“Éponine? Not Epinine?” He asked in surprise, “That’s an interesting name, Madame… I would certainly love to meet her… She’s quite beautiful, if you don’t mind my saying, Madame.”

Smirking slightly, she waved it off, “She takes after her mother. Perhaps you might come to our place of residence, next week?” She gave him the directions, still smirking; she was quite pleased with the way the day had gone.

After bidding him _adieu_ , she turned around just in time to see Lambert, hands locked behind him, being escorted to the nearest police station. The crowd was beginning to disperse, and it seemed that Anne-Marie and her friend had already left the scene, and that her small family was waiting near an alleyway. Grinning at her husband, she was greeted with a deep kiss, nearly being lifted off her feet. Embarrassed greatly by her parents, Éponine blushed and ran off with the rest of the crowd.

“You wos wondaful, _ma nénette_ ,” he whispered in her ear, patting the spot where the bills were rolled up.

“So wos you, _ma puce_ ,” she grinned, grasping at his hands once he’d let her down, “Six ‘undred francs! Tha’s rent, food, an’ clothes for a year!”

“At least,” he grinned, squeezing her hands and beginning to trot home, “An’ tha’s just the start. I’m beginin’ ta think there migh’ be somethin’ in this justice racket.”

“Oh are ya?” She smirked, rolling her eyes at him, “So long’s it don’t involve you?”

“Naturally.”

“So you’re gonna make this a habit, are ya?”

“I ratha like not ‘avin’ a record ‘ere, an’ you feel the same.”

“Per’aps, _m’amour_ , per’aps,” she smiled faintly, leaning her head on his arm.

“D’you know where the girl got off to?”

“Do we eva?” she replied, only slightly sarcastically, “No, but ‘m not too worried ‘bout it righ’ now. Should ‘ave that painter ‘round soon though.”

“Good. Maybe ‘e’ll get ‘er head off that damned revolutionary bastard.”

“That’s wot I’m bettin’ on.” She looked up at the sky, which was only just starting to cloud over, before looking to her husband and murmuring, “I love ya, Pierre.”

He paused a moment before smiling and muttering back, “Love ya too, Beatrice.”

The thieving pair walked on in the relative quiet, surrounded by others doing their own business, but caught in the glow of gold, their favorite thing above all. By the time they reached their apartment, they were very nearly tearing each other’s clothes off, cursing each other all the way.

Brussels, it seemed, would be very good to the pair.


End file.
